It was the best of trails, it was the worst of trails

So far on the SHT, my experience, trail-wise, has been entirely positive. A good tread, maintenance, every bridge in place as it should be, quick clean-up of storm damage (two months after a devastating ice storm the trail was clear of debris) and other measures of a well-maintained trail. And for the first fifty miles of this weekend, that was the case.

The problem with hiking north along a trail when you live south of it is that every time you want to get there, you've hiked yourself further away from home. My first two trips on the trail were day trips. Two Harbors is less than a three hour drive from the Twin Cities, so it was pretty easy to hike a marathon or so and still make it home (and it means a very light pack). The next two trips were weekend trips. By the time I'd reached Cascade, I was 100 miles up the shore from Duluth—about two hours on Highway 61—and had 70 miles left. With shuttling, this would be rough in two days (doable, maybe, but not fun), so a long weekend was in store.

The other issue is that the last 20 miles of the trail run almost due north, even as the shore turns further to the east. So, instead of finishing near Grand Portage and Highway 61, the SHT ends near the Canadian Border, but in real no-man's-land. So I needed to arrange a shuttle. My plan, at first, was thus. I'd drive up on Thursday after work to Magney State Park, close to five hours north. I'd camp there (or maybe cowboy camp down by the lake) and go spot a bike at the north end of the trail the next morning. I'd then park at Magney and hitch south to Cascade, and start the hike. The logistics would be, well, interesting, as would the 18 mile bike ride at the end, albeit mostly downhill. I do happen to know that my body does not always like 20 mile bike rides after long hikes.

But, better options soon began to present themselves. First, I found a friend's house to stay at in Duluth. He and his girlfriend were away, but I got a key and a promise of a couch. Second, I emailed a friend in Grand Marais who was away hiking in Idaho, but her email bounced to her boyfriend, who was more than willing to give me a ride around to the north end. So, life was becoming simpler.

The drive up was uneventful. I woke up at 6:30 in Duluth and was in Grand Marais by 9:00. I grabbed a snack and we caravanned up to the north end of the trail, taking smaller and smaller dirt roads until we wound up in a tiny parking lot a stone's throw from the Canadian border. I was thinking that, if I had the time and gumption at the end, I'd wade through the woods and surreptitiously cross in to Canada and back across the river for fun. I've never waded or swum a national boundary before.

The shuttle went fine (with one minor issue: I'd forgotten to get gas in Grand Marais and my gas light was flickering as I parked the car. I figured I'd have enough to get to the highway and probably Grand Marais, if not, I'd hitch in to town) and with the clock showing 10:45 I got dropped at Cascade and hiked up the trail. When I'd passed in the fog at 8:30, the lot was empty, by 10:40, with the fog thinning, it was humming. No one made it much past the falls, and within ten minutes I had the trail to myself. I hiked relatively easy, and the trail went away from the river a bit; by the time I was four miles inland, the clouds had burned off and I gathered some raspberries at a parking lot.

The next ten miles were relatively unremarkable. The trail bends inland and the topography is flatter than further south; it isdominated more by intermittent river valleys and the mountains of the Sawtooth Range. Some of the sections were a bit overgrown, but most of the overgrowth were raspberries, so I helped myself. At one point, I thought it had taken me until 2:55—more than four hours—to hike nine miles. It took a while, but I figured out that the clock that morning had been wrong; I hadn't started until 11:45. The trail then followed the North Shore Trail—a snow machine trail and dogsledding trail in winter—for quite a ways, which was easy but boring hiking. Finally, the trail dumped out on to the Gunflint Trail above Grand Marais, which had a nice, but hazy, view, and then continued towards Pincushion Mountain on ski trails.

There was some company on these trails, including a fellow on a mountain bike at the parking lot who gave me some water. Water had been scarce and stagnant, so I was waiting until the upcoming Devil's Track River to restock, his sips helped me through. Right before climbing the spur up Pincushion Mountain (good view off the top) I had other company in the name of a black bear up the trail. Hi, Mr. Bear. He ran off. I made some noise and descended down the canyon. I filled water at the bottom, eager to drink, and chatted with some folks camping there about the trail—they were thru-hiking south. I don't think they'd mentioned much about the condition of the trail further north; if they had I hadn't heeded the advice. I hiked up the other side of the picturesque valley and on to the Woods Creek campsite, where they'd mentioned the stream was flowing.

I thought I might have company there, but the two guys were packing up their camp at 7:45 p.m. I chatted with them a bit and they mentioned that a bear had been through camp the night before—considering how clean they left it (I had to pack on some of their trash, and they were walking out all of half a mile to their car) I wasn't that surprised. Nevertheless, I went to hang bear ropes.

I've always thought that I am a more than proficient bear rope hanger. On the AT I had some epic hangs (with 100 feet of line it's not that hard) including one in Shenandoah which was over a branch so thick that I talked with some camp counselors about hoisting a child up for fun. (This was not done.) However, up in Northern Minnesota, in the boreal forest, throwing bear ropes becomes a bit of a headier issue. The problems lie in the tree types. Oaks and maples (the latter predominating along much of the trail south of Cascade) tend to throw out thick branches ten to twenty feet off the ground, which are perfect for throwing a rock over and hoisting up a food bag.

Birches and pines, the staples of the boreal forest, each present problems. Pines are all but out—their branches are generally thin and it's too easy to get a rock and line caught in them. Birches have problems, too. First, they tend not to have branches until their tips, and if they split in to a Y, they do so very high up. Finding two Y-shaped shaped trees near each other could have solved the issue, but those such trees are few and far between. I tried threading a few needles but was unable to get a good throw, and then tried elsewhere. I went up the trail and back, and in to the woods to no avail. I could not find a good tree. I made many throw attempts but couldn't get a good hang. Finally, I followed the stream up a ways, found a tree which had been bent over so a portion of it was about 18 feet off the ground, threw a rope, and went to eat dinner.

After dinner, I went to hang the bag, but found out that birches have another issue: they are very soft. So, instead of gliding nicely over the trunk, my rope dug in, creating so much friction that I could barely move it without a food bag on it; when I tried to do so with the bag it wouldn't budge. More cursing. I took down the rope and set off, now by headlamp, down the riverbed to scout another throw. Due to flash flooding last year, many of the streams have wide debris paths with little water, so they are easy to follow (at least at this time of year). I did so, looking for trees, and finally realized that where the stream courses through a bit of a canyon, the eastern bank was about 25 feet higher than the western bank. So, if I were to scramble up the loose talus bank, tie off to a tree, tie to a tree on the other side, and then hoist, I could probably get a good hang. I set off to do so. I climbed up and tied to a tree, then went down and tied off on the other side. I then had to repeat the procedure to hang the bag, which, once done, was a thing of beauty. Especially since it had been done in the dark. It had been two hours since I'd gotten in to camp, and all but about 15 minutes were spent on the bear hang. It was, by far, the longest hang I'd ever had.

I went to sleep, having earned it with 24 miles of hiking and two hours of bear ropes. It was warm, humid and calm, and the mosquitos were out, although not in full force. Still, it necessitated zipping to my bivy sack, and while I didn't sleep well with the constant whine of the mozzies, I rested peaceably.

I awoke the next morning, with no visits from the bear, and found it easier to take down my bear bag in the light. Even with various dalliances, I was able to hit the trail before 7:00, climbing up a nice section along Woods Creek. The trail was then nice, but uneventful, as it wound through the forest and crossed several smaller streams (and saw another bear). I crossed the Kadunce River above a small waterfall pouring over red rock, and then experimented with shutter speeds at the next falls. The trail took me through more unremarkable forest and then began a long descent towards the lake.

There are many unique facets of the SHT, and most of them have to do with the big lake to the right (or, going southbound, the left). The most intriguing part, however, is the "Lake Walk." For a mile and a half, the trail crosses Highway 61 and goes on to Superior's beach and follows the shore of the lake. It's not really a trail, you just walk along the beach, although the "beach" is quite different from most ocean beaches. First of all, there's not really any sand. Because the beach is only a few thousand years old, the water has only had enough time to grind the rock there in to pebbles, so while it is soft and malleable (like sand) it is not grainy and won't blow around in the wind. There are dune structures and bogs just inland of the beach, similar to the ocean, but with no salt water the plant species are not differently adapted. Also, while there are waves (at times, Superior has large waves), there is no appreciable tide, so the water is almost always at the same level. It is very interesting and beautiful.

My first order of business was to treat water. I'd taken water at the Kadunce but didn't want to have to pause there to treat it, so I carried it down to the lake and sat down to treat. I took off my shoes, put my feet in the water, and waded out—what a way to soothe my legs! (The lake never gets above about 52 degrees.) I then packed up my bag and decided to walk barefoot down the beach, in and out of the water. I never really get to hike barefoot!

While I had been waiting, a group of women up the beach had begun to disrobe and enter the water. I picked my way along the beach, going slowly to let my feet rest, and one of them donned a towel (by disrobe, I mean disrobe) and came towards me (in a towel) and asked if I could "give them some space." I mentioned that they were skinnydipping on a hiking trail, and that of the 1000 miles (actually closer to 3000) of shoreline they could have chosen for their escapade, they chose the one with an established hiking trail. I conceded to putting on my shoes and walking along the inland shore of the beach. A few minutes onward, my water was treated, and I sat down for drinks and a lunch. The skinnydippers, now clothed, awkwardly walked by.

I ate lunch and soaked my feet and legs some more before setting off again. The lake walk was beautiful but rather hard with the soft surface; had I known, I would have planned to camp on the soft lake shore. The trail dipped back across 61 and in to the woods, climbing in rather straight sections along property lines. It was warm and humid, and sections in the sun were particularly hot, a rarity in these parts. The trail soon intersected a ski trail and descended to Magney State Park, where I used the restroom.

Magney Park is home to the peculiar Devil's Kettle Falls (more on that later) and the first mile of trail is very popular, although not particularly easy for the average visitor. Thus, there are signs admonishing people to be in good physical shape and to make sure to carry water—I was not concerned. However, as I ascended, I passed several groups who maybe should have heeded this advice, including one guy who, as I jogged by, exclaimed "This sucks!" as he slogged up. The trail climbed a bluff and then descended a long staircase to a swimming hole (I might have partaken had there not been 20 others there) before climbing to Devil's Kettle Falls.

The falls themselves are splendid. The Brule River splits in two and falls over a ledge. The eastern section falls on to a ledge below and continues towards Superior. The west section falls in to a deep pothole and disappears. Supposedly, the water winds its way underground back in to the river or in to the lake. And, supposedly, people have thrown dyes and ping pong balls in to the pothole and they've never been seen again. In any case, it's mysterious and beautiful and, because there's a second climb to get there from the swimming hole, not crammed with people.

From there, the trail once again became a narrow path and followed the now-calm Brule River. I passed a group from Menogyn and then didn't see anyone for a while. The trail climbed away from the river and then descended towards the Flute Reed River before dumping out on a road for a mile-and-a-half road walk.

I don't particularly like road walks but this one was relatively benign. There was one problem: mosquitos. With the warm, muggy weather and flatter terrain with more standing water, I was in mosquito territory. If I stopped, they'd swarm. Perhaps due to the seasons I'd been hiking, I'd not had trouble with mosquitos, but that was changing—fast. The gravel road climbed for a while and then passed through a swamps, mosquito central. Things were not looking too hot.

When the trail returned, it seemed different than the rest of the trail preceding it. No longer did it climb along the shore—it had begun its trek inland, towards the Boundary Waters. It was flatter, more out in the open, buggy and, above all, generally uncleared. One section had been weed-whacked for half a mile; the rest was waist- to chest-deep grass and raspberry bushes—they appeared not to have been cleared since spring. The raspberries were peaking which might have been a saving grace if it was possible to stop to pick them without mosquitos swarming, but it was not. In fact, I almost welcomed the grasses, which kept the mosquitos off my legs (where they particularly liked to feast. In five miles I'd gone from beautiful trail along a lovely river to overgrown trail in a fetid swamp. And I had 18 miles to go.

The trail dumped on to another, much less traveled road which was nice, as I could jog and keep the bugs at bay. One section wound around a swamp and right back to the road, prompting curses. It then climbed a low ridge and descended, along a swamp, to a campsite. There, there was company. I stopped for water and discussed the trail. The campers there, Jody and Ben, felt the same way I did. "This is horrid!" was the general exclamation. We commiserated. They were "very glad that I felt the same way I did" and that they were not just weaklings. I pulled the old AT out of my hat. "I hiked the whole AT and nothing was this bad. This is awful." I told them that if they could survive the next five miles, it got a lot better. They did not have the same kind of news for me.

According to them, the next two miles were terrible. Lots of brush, lots of bugs, and nothing to see. There was a short section on a ridge later on, but then more overgrown trail infested with mosquitos. I was not intrigued. I decided to push on to the next campsite (in retrospect, I should have stayed there, I could have used company) and camp there. After half an hour of water treatment and dinner (it was a less-buggy location) I made my way down the trail.

I got to the campsite and it was as buggy as the trail had been. I went in to set-up overdrive: every second I was out I was getting eaten alive. Bear ropes weren't too hard and, frankly, I didn't care that much. Within ten minutes I had my bag hung and had zipped myself in to my bivy sack, away from the mosquitos. It was 8:00—an hour or more to darkness. And with the mosquotos swarming outside the sack (thank goodness for its protection, at least) I didn't get bitten too much more. But outside, the buzzing was insane. And then it began to rain.

They say whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Or badly burns your hands. (Added after a klister-induced hand-burning.) Well, I didn't die, and while I may not be stronger, I am somewhat wiser. I learned a few things. First, my bivy sack will keep me drier, but definitely not dry, in the rain. I need to buy a lightweight tent. Second, making assumptions about the weather is a bad idea. I had assumed it would be warm without rain, or with only a passing shower. I was wrong. It rained all night.

The bivy did a pretty good job at wicking moisture—I watched as steam escaped and it dried out between downpours. Still, it was cold and clammy, and when I finally decided to unfurl my sleeping bag (down, so I was reticent) it got rather wet. I was sort of warm enough in my windbreaker-weight jacket and the wet bag, but very uncomfortable. I slept maybe an hour in all. I tried to stay warm by doing in-bivy core exercises and singing songs, and didn't lapse too far in to hypothermia. Had it been 10 degrees colder, I would have been in deep trouble. By 4:45 I was counting down the time to first light, and when I could make out nearby trees, I got out of the bag, threw my belongings in to my pack, donned my headlamp, and got the hell out of camp, the ubiquitous mosquitos still there. It was miserable.

I was a wreck. I warmed up rather quickly but was not having a good time. In four months on the AT, I had never been in this sort of state, even when I shivered myself to sleep in a shelter at 3500 feet in Maine. It was a mile to the road, which I'd heard from camp overnight (it gave me hope that I wasn't too far from civilization) and, with less than 14 miles to hike, I walked up to the road at about 5:45 a.m. and stuck out my thumb. I wasn't about to suffer in the rain, mud (it certainly had rained overnight) and fog for another ten miles to not get views of Isle Royale off the ridge and get more blood sucked from my veins.

The problem was that, by road, I was 10 miles, or so, from my car. And the roads are not well traveled. The first section is along the Arrowhead Trail which has some traffic. The third vehicle by was a construction truck who gave me a ride up a mile to the junction where I needed a ride on the much-less traveled Jackson Lake Road. I flagged a few cars, hoping someone would be willing to give me a ride a few miles out of their way, to no avail. Then, around 6:30, a guy came down on an ATV and, after chatting with a driver coming by, offered me a ride "as far as his gas tank would take him." I weighed the options, standing hoping for the kindness of strangers versus riding on a dangerous, 3-wheeled ATV probably not the whole way. I took the ride. I thanked the guy profusely but realized that this was probably fun for him, since he liked riding on ATVs. I can't say I enjoyed the experience, but it beat the hell out of walking.

He took me about two thirds of the way, before having to turn back. With four miles to go, I grabbed some food, the guide book with maps, and set off down the road. At least it wasn't overgrown, and the mosquitos were bad, but not as bad as the evening before. I started counting my steps to keep my sanity, 1000 strides per mile. 4000 strides to the car. I sang a song, and then calculated how many feet the song had carried me. Stan Rogers seemed to boom well, and The Mary Ellen Carter carried me more than a third of a mile. Barrett's Privateers another quarter. The calculations in between helped some too. About half a mile from the car, a red Yaris—not the car you'd expect in these parts—rolled by, turned around, and offered a ride. Yes, I'd accept. I didn't need it, I could walk the next mile, but I was happy for the offer. A transplant from Minneapolis, who now lived next to the border with Canada, drove me to the car. While I hadn't finished, per se, I was at the end of the Superior Trail. For now.

I've written to the Superior Trail folks and informed them that they need to state the trail conditions on their webpage, and do a better job maintaining the northern reaches of the trail. But, here's my advice to anyone hiking north of Devil's Kettle. First, do not hike the trail after Memorial Day or before the first freeze. The bugs will get you. Hiking in late September or October—before the first snow—would likely be best. Second, call the SHT office and make sure the trail has been recently cleared. If not, you'll be slogging through a miserable undergrowth. It's not fun. Finally, consider treating the trail as ending at Devil's Kettle. There's not much to see north of there. It seems it was built mainly because they couldn't get right of way along the coast and wanted to connect it to the Border Route and the Kekekabic Trail as part of the North Country Trail. It is not, however, much fun to hike. At least overgrown during mosquito season.

So I may hike it again. I may not. If it is clear and my schedule allows, I might think about a speed record attempt next spring (the current record of 4 days 3+ hours would require four 50 mile days, which, if I had no pack and support, seems doable, although my feet would hurt by the end). If I have time this fall, I'll consider it, but if I am going to drive five hours to Grand Portage, I might take the ferry over to Isle Royale instead. In any case, the Superior Trail is great, for the southernmost 180 miles. North of there, unless you have reason to hike it (North Country Trail hike, wanting to do a longer hike on to the Border Route and Kek Trail to Ely, &c.), don't bother.

The day was just begun, and my adventure was far from over. The first order of business was getting to Grand Marais on a thimble-full of gas. I started up the car and drove lightly down the dirt roads. I'd be in deep sneakers if I got stranded out here (with no traffic). I'd be in better shape on the Arrowhead Trail, where I could hitch, and even better on Highway 61, where I could hitch or rollerski to town for gas. Luckily, I had about 1000 feet to drop to get to Lake Superior, and while Jackson Lake Road was rolling, the Arrowhead Trail was almost all downhill. My gas light was still coming on and off (as it will do before it stays on for good) so I didn't take measures such as killing the engine for the coast down the Arrowhead Trail. I got to Highway 61 and turned south, rolling along about about 50 to coax the best mileage from the little engine. The miles counted down and the car didn't so much as sputter. The road in to Grand Marais is slightly downhill, and when I saw town I knew I had made it; if I had run out of gas I would just coast in to the station. But, I made it in without worries, 466 miles from my last fill-up, and with 11.25 gallons of gas, over 41 mpg.

From there, I took my time getting home. I stopped at Tettegouche for a while, thinking of a hike to High Falls, but rain intervened, and I just took a nap. I then stopped for an hour at Gooseberry to wade in the lake and then at the SHT office to become a trail member (and voice my complaints about the state of the trail up north). The sun was out by Duluth and I took the scenic route home due to traffic on 35 because of repaving. It took most of the day, but when I finally got home, I was never so happy to see a bed and shower.

And what of this page? It was meant to detail my thru-hike of the SHT, which I feel like I've sort of completed (despite some "yellow blazing"). It was meant to convey my impressions of the trail as an AT thru-hiker, which I think I've done. There are sections to which I'll return and may write about, and I'll post photos for this section soon. But for now, it'll become more dormant, until I decide to do more with the SHT.

Caribou to Carlton to Cascade

The hiking season of 2009 kicked off with a doozy. The last time I made for this trail I hiked 34 miles in 24 hours, sleeping without a pad and injuring my foot in the process. This weekend, I decided to take it up a notch. Memorial Day is the official kickoff to summer (so I hear) so—I kicked off hiking (summer) with a bang.

In other words, my feet feel like death.

I thought about leaving early Saturday morning and making the 50-or-so miles (the signage and trail guide do not really match, in other words, something doesn't quite add up, so to speak) in two 25 mile chunks. However, at least two things got in my way. First, I had three dollars in my wallet. Three. I didn't really need any money, but it's nice to have more than three dollars should something go wrong whilst hiking. So, I went to the bank Friday night, stuck in my card, and: "Card Expired." Whoops. Last month, too. I also spent enough frazzled time looking for my AquaMira and my SHT guide book that I didn't wake up until 8:00 on Saturday, and still had to pack up and go. I went to the bank and got money the old fashioned way—from a teller—and made for the north.

The drive up was uneventful but long. I parked at Temperance River State Park—no overnight parking at Caribou Wayside, my point of departure—and went to the road and stuck out my thumb. I got a ride from a pick-up who was willing to take me further than he was going because it was his dad's truck." Fine by me. We got to talking—he grew up about a mile from where I lived last year—and then he mentioned he lived in Boston. Where in Boston? Near Fenway. What street? (I love doing this.) Peterborough. "Oh, near El Pelon," which has now burned down again. He also directed theatre at the Turtle Lane Playhouse, which is less than a mile from where I grew up. Small world.

I bid him adieu and walked the 0.7 uphill miles to the trail to begin my walking. I immediately realized that I had made an error in judgement. I usually eschew sunblock when hiking in the woods—the trees' leaves filter the sun enough. The issue was that the trees this far north were not leafed out and the sun—a month off solstice—was streaming through. I knew that lobsterdom awaited. Along the North Shore there are two major types of deciduous forest: maple (at higher elevations, where it remains slightly warmer—well, less cold—in the winter) and birch. The birch had a bit of a head start, but were just beyond budding. In four months, the leaves will be falling. Summer along Superior is short.

The other immediately noticeable attribute of the forest was the beating it had taken in the ice storm this winter. Four days after I skied in the area in late March, it was hit with an ice storm, which trashed the ski trails. Then it started snowing and there was a bit of skiing in to May. But the birches had been pretty hard hit—most of the crowns were down—and the SHT folks had done a heck of a job clearing the trails. The ski trails, it appears, will take a little longer to clear. (Of course, they have until November. Or October.)

The first ten miles were nice, but unremarkable. Inland ponds, views of the lake, beautiful maple and birch forest. At one point, the birches were so thick that it felt like walking through a sea of white, especially with the leaves not out. Some of the downed birches were leafing out—their last time they'd do that. Hopefully it will be moist enough this summer they don't turn to straight tinder in the coming weeks. The trail wound around Dyer's Lake (as opposed to Dyer's Pond on Cape Cod) and across the last mining railroad of the trail—abandoned, for now, since the price of steel has plummeted.

Then, the trail got a bit more interesting. The rivers on the North Shore have a habit of slowly meandering across the escarpment at elevations of over 1000 feet and then crashing as they plummet down to lake level. The Cross River, of course, was no exception. It began with some rips, became class II rapids and then went in to a narrow chute as it shot downwards. By the bridges—an old, wooden one and a newer, higher, metal crossing which was not yet open—I passed a campsite I decided not to stay at. I wanted to put on a few more miles and avoid a 37 mile day on Sunday. I ate dinner (my diet consisted of a Coop-self-made trail mix and Cabot Cheese), filled water, and crossed the Cross river.

The next river appeared placid from above. In fact, it looked like a wide, slow stream flowing in towards Lake Superior, although due to the topography, it was impossible to see its entry in to the lake. When I hiked down to it, it also seemed wide and docile. Class II whitewater, maybe; something I'd be comfortable in a kayak in with no training. Hiking along it, the river seemed to disappear ahead—going for twenty yards across over a cliff. Which was the case. All of the sudden, the stream poured over a ledge and into a canyon which got narrower and narrower until it was only a few feet wide, funneling the water towards the lake. It was dramatic, beautiful, and above all, loud.

I crossed the river on a bridge and found some amazing photographs of the flowing water with the spray above illuminated by the setting sun. I then retraced the progression of the stream on the north bank, as the flow got calmer and the canyon wider until, again, the stream was a river again and quieter and calmer. The trail climbed away from the stream (with some nice views) and through a stand of birches which were all uniformly bent unidirectionally—evidence of the recent ice storm—and which had littered the forest floor with debris. And I took a lot of photos ot the Temperance.

I planned to camp on Carlton Peak but would have likely stopped at a grassy, but unofficial, site below the summit. It was, however, already taken and I didn't want to intrude, so I hiked up. Despite the time being after 9:00, the sky to the west was still pink and the summit open and rather bright. I hung bear ropes—which would have been a surprise had anyone hiked up for a sunrise, as the bag hung over the middle of the trail (and I still have my skills in bear rope hanging)—ate dinner, and fell asleep as the last of the light melted away and the starts came out overhead. It was not as secluded as most of the trail—I could see the lights of several resorts, taconite harbor, and even some faint music from below. It reminded me a bit of Peters Mountain in Virginia—where the lights shone in the valley below.

I woke up once in the middle of the night and the stars and Milky Way were spread out above my head. I attempted to take a star-trail picture which sort of worked, except I had to hold down the shutter of my camera for five minutes which both shook the frame (a little) and froze my hand—it was in the mid-30s out. I put away the camera and went back to sleep.

When I awoke, the sun was already coming up—I'd missed sunrise. Of course, with only six hours of really pitch black and maybe seven of proper darkness, I needed to get my rest. At these latitudes (47.5˚ north) and this season, the sun rises almost northeast, straight along the lake shore, which mean it rose behind trees. I was up, and cold, but knew I had a bit of a day of hiking ahead of me, and proceeded to get up, pack my bag, dress (fleece and long underwear), take down my bear ropes, eat breakfast (yup, trail mix and Cabot) and head down below.

As I passed below Carlton's cliffs, my legs did not want to coöperate with hiking at any great speed. I'd had grand ambitions of hiking the whole bit of trail in nine hours and being done before 3:00 (it was close to 6:00 when I started off). At the rate I was going I was unlikely to do that. The descent took me down to the Sugarbush ski trail, where I'd been on snow less than two months ago. A few days later they'd closed due to the ice storm, with several feet of snow on the ground. The trails were pretty well trashed, but at least the storm occurred at the end of the season, so they'll be able to clear by next year.

The trail then wound through a section with a spur up Leveaux Mountain, which affords several views. I skipped this loop and the one on Oberg Mountain, as they both required extra hiking, and I wisely realized I didn't want to push with a thirty-mile day ahead. The terrain was familiar from my ski loop in March, dominated by beautiful stands of maple. I'd love to see it in the fall, when I can return to these trails. I spent some time in the privy at the Onion River trailhead (where there was skiing three weeks ago) and headed off towards Lutsen.

I began to feel better after my trip to the restroom and easily made the rather steep, rather long six hundred foot climb up Moose Mountain (yes, that qualifies as a long hike in these parts). The trail then went down the northwest flank of the mountain and in to some very runnable terrain around Mystery Mountain, where I took full advantage. I planned to refill water at the Poplar River but found a smaller, colder stream before it and double-filled my water bottles—my second and third liters of water of the day.

I was glad I didn't fill from the Poplar. The rule of water is that the smaller, colder and faster the source, the better. Small sources drain smaller areas (less potential for contaminants), colder water has been out of the ground for less time (fewer contaminants) and fast water generally doesn't have as much plant growth which can adversely affect the water's taste. The poplar was probably pretty cold, and where I crossed it, transitioned from slow to fast. Unlike many rivers which wound amongst basalt dikes and poured over ledges, the Poplar fell down an angled jumble of boulders, rollicking on towards Lake Superior. The sound and power of the water was tremendous; I began to wonder why no one had ever dammed the whole north shore in a hydroelectric scheme, and was glad they had not.

I began to wonder if anyone ever ran these rapids (and other falls along the North shore) in whitewater kayaks. It seemed pretty stupid, but, then again, whitewater kayakers did stupid things. It turns out people did, but not often. The section of the Poplar I was looking at was called "Bielek's surprise—the first time it was run was by accident (surprise!) by a guy called Bielek—and there is video (about a minute in). And the Cascade River (where I'd hike later in the day).

I continued at a good pace through Lutsen, where there were views of the still-snowy downhill slopes. The trail soon leveled out along the now-placid Poplar River, which wound through marshland. The trail was flanked by wildflowers, providing color to the rather gray landscape. By Lake Agnes, I had hiked 40-plus miles in twenty-four hours and was beginning to feel its effects. In other words, the next ten miles were rather painful.

I passed a woman who was running south, although since I was running at the same time she yielded to me across a bog bridge. Had I know that she was in the process of setting the female supported record for the trail I would have stepped aside. My other recollections from this section include the lovely Lake Agnes, views of the Poplar River, a section along a snowmobile trail where I forced myself to run (knowing only three or four miles remained) and then the descent to the Cascade River. There was one more hill which I sprinted up, yelling "die evil hill!" as I did so, and I got to the Cascade River—quitting time.

Well, not before I snapped a few pictures of the falls in the gorge, probably my favorite so far. I'll let the pictures tell the story. I went to the parking lot, right on the lake, and stuck out my thumb—it was not a bad place to try to catch a ride. I wound up with some Duluthians—a husband and wife and one of their fathers, whose accent was thicker than I can describe. It was fantastic. I found my car, hit the road and, along Highway 61, had a very cute moment—a pair of Canadian Geese were herding their chicks across the road, stopping traffic, a la Make Way for Ducklings (sans Officer Mike). I stopped for a bite and, aided by some Coca-Cola, got home before midnight.

Sore.

Ugh

In sickness and in health, 'til death do you part.

Sadly, in the past three weeks, I've had much more of the former. It started off with the hurt foot I had from my escapade running a half marathon and then covering 35 miles on the SHT. By the time I would have next been able to get on the SHT, I was coughing and wheezing my way through a cold—which morphed in to a sinus infection. That's kept me grounded for the past week. Much of that time my teeth and jaw and head would hurt when I ran; every time my foot hit the ground. This is not conducive to hiking.

So, no hiking. I think I'm over everything, but it has not been my month. I might hit the trail next weekend for a ways, but with shorter days and snow coming, it might be nearing the end of hiking season for me. Which is not all that bad, it means ski season is right around the corner!

(And yes, if I have a choice between driving four hours to hike on the SHT versus four hours to ski at ABR, I'm probably going with the latter.)

Distances

I've spent some time putting together a table of distances on the SHT. Basically, the Superior Trail Guide publishes each hike as a "section" which often includes an approach trail or some other such trivialities. When you are reeling off three or four "sections" a day it makes it a pain to calculate mileage between different points.

I searched online quite a bit and didn't find anything, so I put something together myself. A chart of distance on the Superior Hiking Trail. There might be a couple problems as some of it was entered kind of late at night (and in some other cases, the SHT guide was not very helpful with its descriptions) but we'll do with it what we can.

I think it's helpful. It makes it easy to see if I am going to do something easy, hard or stupid.

Next SHTing is probably the weekend of the 11th to 12th. There are two reasons it might not happen. One is weather; there is some chance of lots of rain in coming few days which would put a damper on the hiking. The other is me being stupid. You see, there is a marathon up in Wisconsin that weekend. 26 miles, downhill 600 feet, on a rail bed (less knee killing). Why, in god's holy name, would I run this? Well, I sort of want to run Boston. By sort of I mean that at some point in my life, having grown up on the route, I want to run it. The main issue? I have to run a 3:10 marathon — that's 7:20 miles — to qualify.

Recently, I've been doing that. I raun 6:50s over 9+ miles a couple weeks ago, 8:00s in a half trail marathon on a brutal course, and 7:00s yesterday in a bit of a time trial. My main issue right now is some residual foot pain from aforementioned shenanigans a couple weekends ago. If that goes away, and I am having good runs and think I can run a 3:10, I might go for it. Then I'd have to start planning a trip home in April.

34 miles in 24 hours

Start: Minnesota Highway 1
Finish: Caribou Wayside, via Spur Trail.
Approximate time and mileage: 32.9 miles in 23:10 (including sleeping). (Plus 0.7 miles on spur trail.)

I got home from my run on a nice ride on the Greenway where I was able to draft some. I took a quick shower and began packing my bag. With temperatures forecast to be in the mid 30s, I decided to go with my two-pound, 0˚-rated sleeping bag (versus my one pound, 40˚ bag). There was one problem — I couldn't find its stuff sack.

I tried several; none worked. Finally, on the second attempt to get it in to my thermarest sack, I saw something inside the sleeping bag. What was it? A stuff sack. Designed for just that sleeping bag. And after twenty minutes of cursing, it — lo and behold — fit perfectly. Now, it also happened to mostly fill my wee backpack, so I wouldn't have room for things like, say, a stove or a pad or pretty much everything. Which is good, because I didn't plan to bring them. It was to be my best attempt at ultralight packing.

I made a sandwich for the car and, with a dozen or so Clif Bars, set off. With the shenanigans with the sleeping bag, I didn't get started until almost 2:00. The drive up was very uneventful, and by 5:20 I had pulled in to the parking lot at Highway 1, with 8.2 miles to go to a campsite and nary two and a half hours until dark.

The trail begins through an area with once type of tree all of a young age (all aspens, and all maybe 25 feet high). With this uniformity, Tom Wessels teaches us that that there must have been some event that cleared the land, such as a clear cut or a fire. A clear cut, however, would probably have left stumps to sprout multiple trunks, which we don't see. So this was likely a fire. And a friendly sign tells us that yes, indeed, there was a fire there in 1990. In 18 years the landscape has definitely begun to regenerate. It's all aspens, too, a tree which colonises open area but doesn't grow well in the shade. At many other points on the trail, we see areas where, long before, such trees had taken over, only to be replaced by shade-tolerant evergreens. At this rate, this section will be spruce and fir in a century or so.

For most of the next eight miles, the SHT is rather nondescript. This is not to say it isn't nice — it is quite pleasant, especially with the trees turning red. The lake makes a couple appearances, and with the sky clear and blue it was a good hike. I was a bit sore and tired from the morning, but made an effort to run a few bits in order to try to make camp by dark. As advertised, there were some sections which followed the contour, and others which were a bit more climby.

The sun had just about gone down over a red valley when I crossed the next road and met a group of rock climbers stumbling out of the trail, who assured me that the next campsite was not far. I took water at a stream and started up a bit of a hill in the dark, my headlamp leading the way. Since I had found a lot of campsites in the dark on the Appalachian Trail I had little trouble recognising the trail junction, and found another tent and dying embers of a fire. After a bit of conversation whilst I hung bear ropes (It's easy with maples, although the other guy there had poorly hung his against a tree above his tent.) I bedded down in my sleeping bag in my bivy sack with my head on my backpack. I didn't have much else.

Sleeping without a pad is not something I'd do more than one night at a time. I need to get a slightly larger bag so I can carry a pad and still go very light. I was tired enough from (including warm ups) 24 miles on my feet and 24 miles on a bike so I slept straight through from about 9:00 to 3:30. After that, the moon was too bright for me to sleep well and the ground too bumpy. I slept in fits, heard a few red-eyes fly over, and finally got up around 6:45. I grabbed my wee food bag (also the bivy bag), packed up, had some water and food, and hit the trail by 7:00. The other guy was fast asleep.

The day had dawned cloudy and cool, but it had definitely not dipped in to the 30s the night before. I was probably carrying an extra pound of weight, and it was also a pain to keep my pack from being overfull. The SHT Guide called this section "impressive" as far as terrain goes, but that didn't mean that it was all that hard. The cliffs above the trail were somewhat impressive, however, and I could see that they might be fun for rock climbing. The trail levels out and passes through more very red maples, and soon crosses a long bog bridge over a beaver dam. For some reason, the SHT calls bog bridges "boardwalks" although I'd disagree with the terminology. Bog bridges (or puncheon, although this too may be a misnomer) are the appropriate term, in my opinion, for planks laid parallel to the trail balanced on short supports, whilst boardwalks are planks of wood placed perpendicular to the trail. In any case, the walk along the pond was nice.

After crossing a branch of the Baptism River (where I stretched on the bridge, my legs still quite tight) the trail had a 0.2 mile roadwalk on one of the best dirt roads I'd ever seen. Then it was back in to the woods, where I took some time to take a look at my left foot, which had a bit of pain. The arch was a bit swollen, and whilst it eliminated much running, I was able to walk without any major issues. The next section of trail was a dozen miles long and described as being pretty easy. It was. Had I been in better shape foot-wise I would have run more, but instead I made about 3 mph.

As I passed a campsite at Egge Lake I took a break to grab a bite to eat and was met by the first SHT thru-hiker I've met. (The guy at the campsite last night was only doing about three quarters of the trail.) We chatted for a while and, as an aspiring AT thru-hiker, was interested in stories. So I told some. What amazed me was how slowly this guy and others make to hike the trail. He was averaging seven or eight miles a day. On the AT, I never did back-to-back sub-10 mile days on full-hiking days (i.e. days not going in to town or something). In other words, I never went camp out-hike less then 10 miles-camp out-hike less than 10 miles-camp out. Not once. Most of the SHT thru hikers seemed to be hiking six or eight miles per day. I'm all about hike your own hike, but I could never do it. It means you wake up at 9, hit the trail by 11, and hike 1.5 miles per hour until 5 with an hour break for lunch. It's not hard hiking, there are no long climbs, and I'd just get bored on a trail that's about as exciting as the AT (with, perhaps, a bit more opportunity to swim, although not in late September).

But this fellow was a nice guy, and managed to keep up with me for 3.5 miles (in a bit more than an hour). He said he liked the pace and was going to try to keep it up. At one point I was talking about my pack and asking about his (he had an AT thru-hiker help him pare it down and frankly it didn't look too big). He asked what it weighed and I guessed about ten pounds (2 for the sleeping bag, 2 for the pack, 1 for the bivy, 3 for food and water, 2 for extraneous). He was astonished. Without breaking stride, I took it off and tossed it to him; he caught it easily. I do quite like hiking thirty-some miles and not feeling it in my shoulders, hips or back at all. I stopped at Sonju Lake and took lake water which tasted like lake water, even with Aquamira. He took a break and I sauntered off.

There was a bit more easy walking as I passed through more maples (where the glacial drift was thick) and boreal forest (where the soil over the laurentian shield was thin). At one point I passed a group doing trail maintenance. As I passed each member of the group, each holding a pair of clippers (no pick-maddocks, though), I thanked them. When I thanked the guy at the front of the group, he turned and said to me, very matter-of-factly, "we're doing trail work." Yup, I got it, that's what all the clippies are for.

The trail dumps out on the access road to Crosby Manitou State Park. There was good water at one point, so I dumped the lake stuff and pumped it up. Sweet elixir. I walked the rest of the road (about half a mile) and found my way on to the park's trails. About a quarter of a mile in I saw a couple other hikers, one of whom looked very familiar. We stopped and looked at each other and I said "what are you doing here?" It was a Macalester senior who had been on a hike with me in the Boundary Waters in 2005. He was up for a weekend of camping and hiking, headed back to the car. My feet were pretty well beat and I thought about asking for a ride out from there, but that would necessitate starting the next leg inland from Highway 61, making hitching almost impossible. We talked for a while, and then I hiked on.

The SHT Guide calls this section of trail more rugged than most of the rest, and I'd agree. The Manitou River cuts a deep gorge and the trail drops 300 feet in to it, and then climbs 500 feet out. I crossed the river on a pretty sturdy bridge, and then huffed and puffed up the hill. After nearly thirty miles I was not in shape to run, and I stopped at the top for a bite to eat and a sip of drink. After a day, I was getting tired of Clif Bars. Next time I'll at least supplement it with some cheese. I stumbled along, slowly ticking down the miles to the end of this trip. The trail goes around Horseshoe Ridge through maples, then easily descends towards the Caribou River.

I found the river and crossed it on a bridge high over a gorge. Halfway down the spur trail to the road, tired, I was faced with the option of hiking down a set of stairs to what I surmised was a waterfall. I decided to do so and was not disappointed. It was not as high or strong as High Falls on the Baptism at the end of the last trip, but it was splendid. Even with the sun out, it was too cool for a swim, and having not run, I had only made about three miles per hour, so it was getting late. I then had to hike up the stairs (154 of them — I counted) and then down to the road, with some recent mass wasting, probably from this spring quite evident.

The Caribou Wayside is on a bit of a reverse curve which was not a great place for a hitch. Still, it took only about ten minutes before I got a ride down Highway 61 right to the car. Going north, it had taken about 24 hours on a trail which zigged and zagged. Straight along the coast, we made it in about that many minutes.

I'll be back, but not too soon. This weekend I am off to Dallas and Austin, and the next weekend have friends in town. It's not worth it to drive 200+ miles for a day hike as I get further up the trail, so I need about three weekends to hike the rest. As long as the weather cooperates on weekends (not too much rain, no snow) I should be fine. If not, I'll be happy, too. Especially if I decide to do something stupid, like run a marathon.

A half marathon (not on the SHT) as a precursor

I had the best laid plans. I followed them to a T. Everything worked out, almost better than could have been expected. And holy cow do my legs hurt.

After my encouraging run last weekend, I decided to run a half marathon (and follow it up with some hiking). My choices were on the Birkie Trail and the City of Lakes Trail Loppet. I'd classify both as "known unknowns". That is to say, I knew both of them, but I didn't know exactly what to expect. I did know, however, that the City of Lakes race was a 45 minute bike ride, and the Birkie Trail was a three hour drive. That made my decision.

I was up a bit before 7:00, having carbo-loaded the night before I had a half a clif bar and set off for Minneapolis. It was already pretty warm, and I don't race well in warm weather. When I did my time trial a week earlier it was 53 and drizzle, perfect running weather (although maybe a tad on the hot side). It was already 60 with the sun coming up. The Greenway was eerily quiet; definitely no one to draft. I got through Uptown and headed north to Wirth Park. I registered and set about warming up.

Every time I had run this week, I'd had cramps in my upper right chest from about the 1/2 mile marker to the 1 1/2 mile mark. Today would be no exception. Thus, I made sure that I warmed up at least two miles so that it would not occur during the race. I ran in to the woods and found some of the course and was surprised that it quickly went down to a singletrack trail with some sections of tricky footing. This was probably to my advantage (lots of hiking has helped me how to best land on trails) but I figured that most of the trail would be on the wider, more gradual ski trails. Even though Wirth has some nasty hills, none are too long or steep. I warmed up for about 20 minutes, and then went back to the start to sip down some more gatorade and wait for the start.

Now, I had no idea what to expect in this race. This was mainly because I had, to that point, never run a running race. Of any kind, shape or form. Both my parents stopped running by the time I was about five years old, and neither they nor friends in high school convinced me to run cross country. I started running only as ski training, and I hated it. I really despised it. It was something to do to get to skiing, but it had little value on its own. So I begrudgingly ran. And as I did so, over the years, I began to like it a little more. By college, I would have some training runs where it felt good. Especially on trails — a 20k pole hike on the Birkie trail ended with me sprinting to the end (to my credit, there was a van full of food). I didn't run much on the AT, owing to a heavy pack and, at times, bad ankles, but it learned me to appreciate monotony.

In the past year, however, I have really begun to like running more. I can think of several times I've gone on "great runs," which I never thought I'd have. One was an ad hoc run on a cool evening to the tops of West Newton Hill, the hill near Newton Corner and the top of Heartbreak Hill (at night). Another was a run on a frosty morning right before I moved out to Minnesota. Another was a twelve miler over the Ford Bridge and Franklin Bridges. And a trail run from Zealand Hut to Shoal and Ethan Ponds. And the aforementioned 9.4 miles at 6:50s last weekend. So I was up for a race.

I had no specific goal, other than to finish and not make too much of a fool of myself. I looked around at the starters and started about five rows back, just in front of the "there's no way in hell that guy's running faster than me" group. The gun went off, and I quickly realised that I was with some slow people. So I ran on the outside (is there running race etiquitte?) to get to about fifteen or twenty guys from the lead. The pace wasn't too fast so I went with the flow. At first, I did well on the steeper sections, both up and down. I know how to ascend, and would get on my toes and dig in to the hill, and on descents, would let gravity gather in to the next uphill — I passed a few folks during both these exercises. The trail wound about around Eloise Butler and then passed a feed where the 5k went back to the start. Supposedly your first race should be a 5k. Or something.

I took the feed but I was feeling pretty beat. Probably something about never having run a race before. I could have gone out slow, but this year I am trying to be stronger at the start. I know my endurance is "there", I've been feeling great at the ends of marathon hikes, but my strength and speed at the starts is not (note to self: more strength and speed work). So after three miles, I slowed down a bit as the trail wound in to the Quaking Bog, home to big hills. And it did not take the ski trail. There were lots of singletrack sections, with logs to jump over, branches to duck under and trees to squeeze through. I felt pretty dead at the top of the big hill there but pushed on through some minor cramps. At one point two runners in front of me took a left instead of a right and I had to yell at them to go the right way — they would have run to Uptown.

The trail flattened and went back through Wirth Beach near where it started. As we ran the sun-beaten pavement one other participant commented "this is brutal." I sort of agreed — although I had nothing to compare it to. The course wound around, up to the Olsen Highway and then made a couple of U-turns to duck under 55 before a flat, open section. Then it was along some mountain bike trails (again, nothing flat, wide and long enough for any sort of rhythm), ski trails and then in to a section of single track at the base of an esker by Twin Lake. It was heartening to see, where the trail doubled back on itself, a lot of people, many of whom looked to be in good shape, a mile behind me. I was running with a couple guys where the course was marked straight up a hill. We took a couple switchbacks and it seemed to climb a steep, scramble of a hill, where hands were required. This was running? We made it to the top, wondering if we were on the right trail, when we finally saw another marker.

Supposedly the course would be flatter, but the organisers managed to find every bit of topography they could that wasn't on the golf course. We ran around the chalet at Wirth, then on some barely-used slabbed trails so narrow I was grabbing trees to keep my balance. Finally we hit the flats along Bassett Creek and under 55 again, where I had a cup of water for the last mile. I thought it would be an easy time back to the finish. Wrong. We followed the creek, then climbed a up a steep hill, went back down and hit the streets of Bryn Mawr. I as running with a woman and we were commenting on how this was a brutal last mile. We headed back in to the trails I knew would lead to the finish — volunteers told us it was a tenth of a mile. It was more like a third. On that downhill, feeling a wee bit of energy, I let loose and put some time on her, and then mustered whatever kick I could in to the finish. I wound up in the chute and drank about six cups of liquid, dazed but pretty excited about having finished my first half marathon.

I cooled down, picked up my bike, and glanced at results. It turns out a bunch of runners had followed one misguided soul off the course like lemmings. They had all run a fourteen or fifteen mile race. So with them out of the picture, I came 18th (out of 233, 15th out of 128ish men). I was fourth in my age class. Top three get prizes. Gack — I didn't really expect to win anything. I got on my bike and rode home.

Now, why did I write all this? This is an SHT blog, right? Well, because a normal person would run a trail half marathon and call it a weekend. (And not an easy half, either. A friends mom who ran it, and is going to Kona for the Ironman in a few weeks, and is sponsored and such said it was a very hard course, and I'd concur. It was definitely a trail run. The Birkie Trail, all on a ski trail with grass and dirt tread and, from OO to Fish Hatchery, few major hills, would have been far easier. The winner of this race ran it in 1:30, 6:52 miles, or three seconds slower pace than my training run a few weeks back. To top it off, it was 70, sunny, with 60 degree dewpoints.) For me the weekend was just starting — I planned 34 miles on the Superior Trail, and all that separated me was a bike ride home (nice and easy), some packing, and a drive.

No, I didn't hike this past weekend, either

I have my reasons. The first is rain. It rained most of the weekend. James was going to come up and we were going to hike Sunday and Monday but his car broke so he was marooned down south. And I didn't want to hike 34 miles in the rain on my own.

Why 34 miles? Well, the trail meanders away from Highway 61 for 34 miles. If I wanted to get back, I'd have to spot a bike or try my luck hitching on very small roads to 61. But I have a plan for this weekend.

On Sunday, when it was 53 and drizzly here, I decided to go for a run. I thought of it as a baseline run and a fast run, from my house to the river, up to the Lake Street Bridge, down to the Ford Bridge, then back home. I was shooting for running 7:30 miles, but wanted to see how fast I could do it.

I had an ulterior motive, too. There are two trail runs this weekend, both of which traverse lovely ski trails I'll be hitting up this winter. Both are half marathons. I know I can run a half marathon (I ran 17+ miles the weekend before this past one) and I know I can run pretty fast, but I wanted to see how fast, and how good I'd feel, and whether I should try one of these half marathons (Birkie Trail and City of Lakes Trail). The answer was...yes.

I had a few minor cramps which worked out by the river. I really turned it up once I'd crossed the Lake Street Bridge in howling winds, and started south along the river. This was one of the runs I've had in the last couple years where I was happy (this never happened before — I used to despise running). As I climbed to the Ford Bridge, mist keeping me cool and happy (53 and drizzle is perfect running weather) I passed a couple decent-looking runners and left them in my dust. I was moving. I hit the Saint Clair Hills and then sprinted from Fairview. I ran in to the house, checked the time (1:04) and after a few minutes cooling down (mostly on a hammock) outside I looked up the distance. 9.4 miles. I'd run 6:49 miles for 15 km. Extrapolate that over a half marathon (I know, hills and trails and distance will slow me down — although given my endurance distance is probably not the biggest issue) and I'd have fun.

So the plan for this weekend:

Saturday: bike to the Trail Loppet in Minneapolis (I decided not to leave at 5:00 to run on Birkie Trail), run the race, eat a free brat for not driving there, and bike home. Throw my pack together and drive north. Hike 9 miles in to a campsite. Sunday: Hike the rest of the way to Highway 61, hitch down, drive home.

If it works out, it will be very fun. And I will be very sore.